Asylum Lake (9 page)
His first act was to get Maggie down into the file room in the basement. The Sheriff demanded her full attention on an odd scavenger hunt for files from a crime committed more than a decade previous. Again, Frank thought better of asking the “whys” and “what for’s” at this request.
Frank rose to his feet and for the first time since throwing himself into the Sheriff’s cruiser a week before let out a big sigh of relief. Sheriff Buck Tanner was back. He wasn’t sure what had changed but had the gut feeling that things were about to get interesting.
After only three minutes on the phone with the man, Griggs knew beyond a doubt that Buck Tanner sounded much more like himself; hard, determined, and pissed off at the world. And most importantly…was coming home.
From left to right across the AM dial, news of the homicides lit up the radio. Buck listened as he drove, the high beams from his old Ford slicing through the inky blackness of the northern Michigan night.
By day, autumn in northern Michigan was a lazy affair filled with color; trees showing and shedding their multicolored leaves for tourists, who in turn opened their wallets for eager shopkeepers. By sunset, with tourists packed safely into their cars, the warm fall colors were swapped out for long shadows that stretched eerily from the breeze-blown trees hanging over the winding roads and empty fields.
Buck passed beneath Bedlam’s lone stoplight shortly after midnight. Snowflakes the size of quarters fell lazily across the windshield of his pickup as his tired eyes surveyed the deserted sidewalks and storefronts. He resisted the temptation to swing by the station and instead steered towards the lake…and home.
A short while later the sound of the crushed gravel road beneath the truck’s oversized tires gave way to the dirt of his driveway. The flurries had stopped and the clearing clouds overhead brought a dramatic dip in temperatures; from just above freezing when he left Grand Rapids to down in the teens as he walked down the path towards the house. He paused briefly at the front door before dropping his bag and then continued walking down the path along the side of the house towards the lake.
The breeze grew stronger as Buck neared the water. He kicked his way through a maze of fallen leaves and branches that littered the pathway and yard. Stopping at the enormous maple that hugged the house and marked the path to the lake, he leaned his weary frame against the tree and drew in a deep breath of cold air. The slow exhale rattled from his throat in a puff of crisp white air.
Buck settled his gaze on the darkened asylum in the distance. From its hilltop perch on the far shore the remote hospital seemed small and altogether unimpressive.
Buck knew better, however. Surrounded by acres of farmland, the hospital had actually been a community onto itself. Small cottages and stately homes were spread across orchards, farms, and fields. All told, more than 5,500 unfortunate souls had passed through its doors since they first opened in 1917.
At its prime, the Lake View Asylum for the Insane housed more than seven hundred patients and eighty staff. Together, they farmed, raised livestock, and even gave the Amish a run for their money in the furniture making business. Hell, there wasn’t a house in all of Bedlam County – or for miles beyond – that didn’t have a table, headboard or other wooden furnishing stamped with the Lake View Furniture company logo. It seemed to make people feel good to have these pieces in their homes, as if they had helped those “poor patients,” having no idea of the reality that they’d been crafted by some of the most dangerous, damaged, and genuinely sick people to ever walk the earth.
Yet standing on the shore, Buck’s mind wasn’t racing with thoughts of farms, furniture or even his injured son. Instead, the reports of desecrated graves had him wondering about the hundreds of small wooden crosses that dotted the rolling hills surrounding the hospital. He recalled driving through the iron gates and seeing those grave-markers; even pausing to snap a few photos Upon reflection, he now could see an odd dichotomy; the serenity of the white crosses against the peaceful backdrop of the lush green hills mixed with the bloodshed he had captured on a half dozen rolls of film inside the disturbing confines of the hospital’s inner-most chambers.
Of course, it wasn’t until much later that the meaning of the small wooden crosses truly sunk in. As he had watched the bodies of the hospital staff being zippered into plastic bags and ushered into waiting hearses for delivery to their grieving family members, Buck had noted with a pang of shame that the tattered remains of patients had been merely wheeled away on gurneys deep into the bowels of the building Not even death, it seemed could grant a soul release from the Lake View Asylum.
Sighing, Buck turned from the lake and retreated along the path to the house. At the door he retrieved his bag and stepped into the empty house. He found his way up the stairs and into the guest room, still avoiding the bed he had shared for so many years with his wife. Stripping down to his boxers, Sheriff Buck Tanner slid between the cool sheets and despite the late hour and comfortable surroundings, waited unsuccessfully for sleep to grant him release from this living nightmare.
August 19, 2010
Bedlam Falls, Michigan
Man cannot live by pie alone. As much as Brady hated the thought of grocery shopping he knew the remnants of Maddie’s apple pie wouldn’t get him and Gruff through another day; nor would the half gallon of milk that the Griggs’s had left for him in the fridge. Begrudgingly, he set out for Kroger’s with Gruff riding shotgun.
He took the scenic route, driving past some of the landmarks and places he had frequented as a teenager. Everything looked smaller; buildings, parks, even the trees. Brady spied the shallow creek near the curve where Stewart Road hugged the train tracks, and smiled at the memory of hunting the murky waters for bullfrogs. The bike ride home, one-handed and cradling two of the largest frogs he had ever seen, had been quite the adventure. The real fun, however, began when his mother discovered the frogs in her bathtub.
The wind through the windows blew the worries free from Brady’s cluttered mind, creating some breathing room. The last several months had proven nearly unbearable; a merry-go-round of emotions and activity that in many ways still had his head spinning.
As the Janie Pearce story grew legs it also grew teeth, eating into every waking moment of Brady’s life. What started as a sad, but simple story about a soccer mom’s unfortunate homicide quickly spiraled into a much larger project; ten column inches that would change his life forever.
It was around this same time that he and Karen had started trying to get pregnant. She was entering her final semester of law school and studying for the Bar Exam. Firms from across the country were courting her, yet Karen had her mind set on working for a small non-profit that provided free legal services to the disadvantaged. Even Karen had been surprised by her father’s angry reaction. The announcement of her pregnancy only added fuel to the fire.
“You are throwing your life away, not to mention our family’s reputation; and for what, this…pipe-dream?” Thomas Greene was pacing back and forth like a caged lion in the kitchen of Brady and Karen’s tiny apartment. Her mother, Tess, sat quietly with Brady sipping at a glass of wine. What was supposed to be a happy occasion had taken its usual left turn into outrage.
“How much,” he continued, drawing his checkbook from his breast pocket and laying it out on the table. “How much to make you forget this insanity?”
This was a Greene solution to every problem; throw money at it, but Karen would have none of it.
“You are unbelievable!” It was the first time Brady had witnessed his wife standing up to her father. From Greene’s reaction, eyes wide open and mouth agape, it was his first time, too. “This is my life, not yours! Not everything in this world revolves around you.”
Then walking closer to him she pointed a finger at him and continued, “As far as this family’s reputation, what have you done to foster that reputation? You’ve spent all of your life living off of grandfather’s name, grandfather’s wealth. Your place in this world has nothing to do with your good works or your efforts. You sit where you are today, with your society friends and important connections, only because of the name you bear. Thomas Greene, as if it were a badge of honor. But I know you. I know the man you are…the father you are. And if grandfather were alive today he would not be honored by the son who bears his name, he would be disgraced!”
Karen had turned from him then, tears welling in her eyes, and retreated from the kitchen to the bedroom. The final realization of the man her father truly was overwhelmed her. Karen’s sobs penetrated the apartment’s paper-thin walls.
Thomas Greene’s expression quickly changed from shock back to anger as he caught Brady’s steely glare. Pen in hand, he scribbled something onto a check, tore it free from the book and then replaced the book in his jacket pocket.
“I believe that was our invitation to leave, dear,” he said stiffly as he reached for his wife’s elbow to help her from the chair. Tess withdrew from her husband’s touch as if pained, and slowly stood on her own. Though small in stature, standing no more than five-foot-two-inches tall in her trademark heels, Tess Greene commanded a room. Brady could feel his father-in-law’s overbearing personality shrink as Tess took control of the situation.
“Brady dear, if you would be so kind, could you fetch my things?”
Brady did as requested and helped his mother-in-law into her expensive cashmere overcoat. Thomas remained rooted in place, red faced and silent.
Tess turned and wrapped her arms around Brady, the first real sign of affection she had ever shown him. Although never impolite, Brady hadn’t exactly felt that he had won his mother-in-law over. Oddly, he sensed that something had now drastically changed.
“Take care of her, Brady,” she whispered. “I’ll be in touch.” Releasing Brady, Tess Greene turned and walked to the door. “Thomas.” The word slithered through her lips dripping with venom.
Thomas Greene straightened his tie and brushed by Brady to follow his wife from the apartment. He paused at the open door and then retraced his steps to stand before Brady.
“I left it blank,” staring icily at his son-in-law as he shoved the check into Brady’s chest. “You fill in the amount,” his voice now thick with contempt. “Give it to charity. Hell, give yourself a raise, Tanner. With neither of you gainfully employed it looks like I’ll be supporting you and your child, too.” He stared down at Brady and added,” We both know this is what you’re after anyway.”
Of course, months later, and in the solitude of his car, Brady could reflect on the occasion and think of a dozen razor-sharp retorts that would have cut the man to the bone. But at the time, he could only stare after the man in disbelief as Thomas Greene, the prick of all pricks, strutted through the open door, slamming it in his wake.
Brady hadn’t mentioned the check to Karen; instead deciding to hide it away. Not that he had any plans for it. On the contrary, he wanted nothing to do with his father-in-law’s money; but when an opportunity had presented itself, both to do some good and to finally take his own jab at Thomas Greene, Brady couldn’t resist.
Thomas Greene’s surprising $25,000 donation to Pride Chicago, a grassroots gay and lesbian awareness organization, had been lauded publicly, yet derided privately; especially in the conservative circles in which he often traveled.
Thanks to Thomas Greene’s generosity, Pride Chicago’s president had proclaimed from the steps of city hall during the annual parade and rally, his organization’s message of tolerance and understanding would be part of a new curriculum being implemented throughout the Windy City’s public school system. The news had spread quickly and the memory of the coverage made Brady snicker.
So, maybe the prick does have some cause to be pissy with me.
Brady acknowledged as he drove. Regardless, he knew it wasn’t a question of if the snake would call again, but of when, and Brady vowed the next time he would be ready.
Very few situations can leave a man feeling as helpless and lost as being turned loose and alone in an unfamiliar grocery store. It had taken every ounce of courage Brady could muster, but he had fought the urge to turn tail and run back to the car where Gruff was waiting. He knew from his passenger’s hungry eyes that to come back empty handed would not be tolerated.
Gruff was already a bit perplexed at being left alone in the car even with the windows all partly down, and adding injury to that insult would surely result in some kind of backlash. The last thing Brady wanted were Gruff’s little surprise packages scattered throughout the house. Best to keep him happy, Brady concluded as he pushed his rickety shopping cart aimlessly up and down the aisles.
He hadn’t thought to make a list; that was his first mistake. Grocery lists had always been Karen’s responsibility. Since Karen’s death, the bulk of his shopping had been done via Chinese take-out menus. Sadly, Bedlam Falls was lacking in that department, thus he would be forced to resort to the dreaded grocery store. He could find the alcohol pretty easily in a grocery store, as for where the canned foods were in relation to the fruits and vegetables; Brady was at a complete loss.
His last solo excursion into a grocery store had been the worst shopping experience of his life. Shortly after they had been married Karen had sent him to the corner market for a box of tampons; Brady had been mortified. He only vaguely understood the mechanics involved in using a tampon and as he stood in front of the shelf, eyeing what appeared to be an endless sea of options; Brady could feel a growing wave of panic growing inside. There was regular, super, and super plus; whatever that meant. Add in the confusion of the pads, both maxi and mini and some even with wings. Brady was as close to a full blown panic attack as was humanly possible sweat, pouring from him as he looked furtively over his shoulder at the imagined glares of the other women in the store. His only other experience related to choosing a specific size of anything for Karen had not ended well. While they were dating Brady has picked out a sundress at a swank, over-priced boutique. He had wanted to surprise Karen for her birthday; and oh what a surprise it turned out to be. Brady had learned the hard way about the difference between a ladies size four and fourteen. Karen had been outraged that he would even consider her a size fourteen. Her reaction had flooded his thoughts as he stood in front of the tampons. Brady had cringed at the thought of what the reaction would be to the wrong size in this instance. Fortunately, he had grabbed the “regular” sized box and not a word beyond thank you had ever been mentioned.
Brady steered his squeaky cart towards the checkout. Beyond beer and dog food, he didn’t know what else he had picked up, but the cart was nearly overflowing. He glanced at his watch, twenty minutes, not too bad at all, as if it were some kind of race.
The line was horribly long and it felt like an hour before Brady was able to start unloading his items onto the conveyor belt. As he watched the items make slow progress towards the register, he was struck by just how haphazard his shopping had been. Plus, it screamed bachelor. There were Funyons and beer, frozen pizza, ice cream and the assorted toppings, Cocoa Puffs cereal, pop tarts, and an odd mix of other items that he had no recollection of tossing into the cart. He was pondering this when a voice stirred him from his jumbled thoughts.
“I.D. please, sir.”
Brady felt his face redden as he reached for his wallet to retrieve his driver’s license. He handed it over and added sheepishly, “Sorry, I was just ….thinking.”
The cashier took his license and studied it carefully. Brady raised his eyes from the groceries to the woman’s face as she spoke.
“You forgot the bananas,” she stated and then smiled. “I seem to recall that you always liked bananas with your ice cream.”
Brady stared in puzzlement, unsure of how to respond. “I…uh…excuse me?”
The woman’s smile widened as she continued. “Or have you outgrown the banana splits?”
In that instant Brady’s eyes traveled from the woman’s face to the name tag on her blue smock. Brady’s already reddened face flamed to an even deeper shade of crimson.
Of course, he told himself. Her blonde hair was shorter now, hanging loose above her shoulders, but the splash of freckles across her nose and cheeks marked her as his April.
They shared uncomfortable laugh followed by a nervous silence before Brady collected his thoughts and found his voice.
“So, uh…still in Bedlam Falls, huh?”
April cast her eyes back to the groceries and continued scanning the items. “Yeah, life doesn’t always work out like you planned.” She paused, and then added, “I’m sorry about your parents, Brady.”
“Yeah,” he replied, thinking about his own life over the past 18 months, “full of surprises.”
The crackle of the overhead pager interrupted the conversation. “Clean up in aisle five, April. We need clean up in aisle five.”
Brady laughed. “So what’s in aisle five?”
“It’s the breakfast aisle,” April replied, and then muttering, “but something tells me it’s not cereal I’ll be cleaning up.”
Brady chuckled as he paid for his groceries. “Better you than me.”
April’s frown eased into a loose smile. “Gotta run, but I’ll be at Charlie’s tonight about seven. First split is on me.”
Brady watched her turn and walk towards aisle five.
Wow
,
April Mayer all grown up.
He thought as he wheeled his squeaky cart of groceries into the parking lot, and then it dawned on him, and still taller than me!
Brady arrived at Charlie’s shortly after 6:30 and laid claim to a picnic table in the shade. Gruff sat at his feet panting in the evening heat. The pair had spent the better part of the day puttering around the Up North House; Brady had witnessed the Tigers get pounded by the Royals while Gruff kept watch. The usually lazy dog hadn’t quite yet grown comfortable in his new surroundings. Truth be told, Brady wasn’t entirely comfortable either.
He still found himself avoiding his parent’s room; doing his best to keep those memories tucked neatly behind the closed door at the end of the hallway. The problem was, however, each and every room, piece of furniture, and knick-knack carried the weight of some memory. Fortunately, bumping into April had provided and unexpected bounce to his step… and a pang of unforeseen guilt.
Brady found himself playing with his wedding ring; twirling it about his finger. It was a nervous habit he had picked up after Karen’s death; a comforting reminder that he always carried a little piece of her heart with him. Today, it made his finger itch. Guilt, he thought, and I haven’t even done anything. He was going to add yet, but reconsidered.
Instead, Brady turned his attention to what he was wearing. Although his cargo shorts, Pearl Jam concert t-shirt, and black Chuck Taylor’s looked casual, it had taken way too much effort and energy to look this hip. He had felt like a teenager while trying on outfits in front of his mirror. Now, he felt like an old man trying to act young. Brady was so caught up with his tangled thoughts, not to mention trying to keep his stomach sucked in, that he didn’t notice April’s approach.
“
You see honey; this is what a stranger looks like. You never ever want to talk to someone who looks like this.”
Brady coughed nervously as he looked up from his sucked in stomach to find April standing over him. Beside her was a child, a miniature version of the fetching woman that still, it would seem could take his breath away.
Brady rose to his feet, trying his best to suppress his lopsided grin. “Yes, sweetie, it’s true. This is indeed what a stranger looks like.” Brady squatted down to be eye-level with the young girl, “But my name is Brady, and this here is my dog Gruff. And strangers are only strangers until you know their names.” And then stealing a glance up at April, “Besides, I’ve known your mommy here for a very long time.”
The girl responded with a toothless smile. “My name is Abby Mayer and I am five and a half years old and I have a goldfish at home because mom says dogs poop on the carpet.”
Brady laughed, “Well, your mom is right. Gruff has had a couple accidents. But he’s a really good dog. You can pet him if you want, especially behind his ears, he loves that.”
With introductions over, Abby eagerly pounced on Gruff. He returned the attention with a very wet kiss and the two were quickly becoming acquainted.
“I see you brought your bodyguard,” Brady teased as he stepped towards April. Dressed in a pale yellow sundress and chunky sandals, April returned his smile and nervously tucked her hair behind her ear.
“Yeah,” she countered, “although I prefer to think of her as my man-repellant.”
After an awkward silence, Brady invited her to the table to sit down. They sat quietly watching Abby and Gruff frolic in the grass.
“Let’s see who gets tired first,” Brady said. “My money is on Abby.”
Laughing, “I’ll take that bet, and your money. Abby doesn’t get tired. Even as a baby she hardly ever slept.”
Brady joined in her laughter. “She’s beautiful,” he added, “must get it from her dad.”
Aprils smile softened as she turned away. “So did you decide on a banana split or are you trying something different?”
Brady cringed at what he had just said.
Smooth.
He berated himself. “Um…I really hadn’t given it much thought. Just know that Gruff wants a dish of vanilla.”
Her smile returned, “You feed him ice cream?”
“We’re roommates,” Brady replied shrugging. “Split the tab right down the middle. He eats what I eat.”
“Don’t forget,” April countered, “I saw firsthand what your grocery shopping consists of, somebody should call PETA on you!”
“Then you should know that Funyons are all vegetable; potatoes for the fun and onions for the,” Brady paused, “yons.”
April’s snorting laughter echoed across the picnic tables. Even Gruff stopped in mid-romp with Abby and cocked his head; his oversized yellow ears perking up.
April pressed her hands over her reddening face, as if hiding would make her annoying laugh less noticeable. She could feel the tears escape from her eyes as her shoulders rocked in a now silent laughter
“Nothing to see here people, go about your business.” Brady moved forward and placed his hand on her shoulder, guiding her towards the counter. “Let’s get you some ice-cream.”
They talked for hours as Gruff and Abby played; a lot can change in fifteen years and for both of them it had. April had left Bedlam Falls right after high school, accepting a scholarship to Eastern Michigan University to study elementary education. She had wanted to put as much distance between herself and her hometown as possible. Like Brady, however, she was back in the one place she thought she would never be.
Her life couldn’t be mapped in a straight line; instead it had been filled with peaks and valleys. After college she had settled in Ann Arbor and quickly found a job teaching kindergarten at a small Catholic school.
That was a peak.
The valley followed a year later when a positive pregnancy test abruptly ended what she had thought was a very promising and long-term relationship.
Abby’s father, April used that term only in the biological sense, was completely uninvolved and provided absolutely no support. The juggling act of balancing a baby and a demanding job became too much, and with her pride fully swallowed, April found herself back in Bedlam Falls.
The tiny trailer she had grown up in was cramped, although less so now after her mother had passed away. April’s father had been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s and she now found herself spending most of her time caring for him. It wasn’t the life she had planned for, but she was making the most of it; for herself and for Abby.
Brady hung on every word. He had known that April had always wanted to teach, something that he had never fully understood. Brady couldn’t recall even one teacher that had made an impact on him. Besides, dealing with 25 screaming little kids just seemed more like torture. Now, however, as he watched Abby run and play, Brady could see just why April might enjoy children so much.
“How about you?”April asked motioning towards Brady’s ring. “I see the ring but have to doubt that there is a Mrs. Tanner at home eating Funyons right now?”
Brady didn’t know how to respond. The subject of his wife’s death had always been a difficult one for him to discuss. The wound was still very fresh, and somehow he felt that by sharing his hurt here, and with April, he would be soiling that memory.
“Peaks and valleys,” he said looking away. “What do you say we save that topic for another day?”
April paused and nodded, “Sure thing.”
A comfortable silence followed as they watched Abby and Gruff. Both appeared close to being at the end of their batteries. Lay out perpendicularly on the grass using his soft fur as a pillow. Although unable to understand the words, Brady could hear Abby talking quietly and non-stop to the dog.
“Something tells me those two are going to be inseparable.”
“Yeah,” April agreed, reaching over and giving Brady’s shoulder a soft punch. “Like long lost friends reunited.”
November 10, 1971
Bedlam Falls, Michigan
Sheriff Buck Tanner arrived at the station shortly before sunrise and parked his familiar truck around the block behind the library to mask his presence. He wasn’t quite ready to be the official face of the investigation.
Let Frank have a little more fun
. He thought as he entered the darkened station and put on a fresh pot of coffee.
As requested, Maddie had spent some time in the file room. A neatly organized mess greeted him on his desk. To the left was a very thick and somewhat intimidating appearing binder atop a stack of newspapers. Buck guessed at what was contained therein and quickly turned his attention to the small stack of files on the right side of his desk. Between the two piles rested a handwritten note.
Sheriff,
–
Cupboard was left pretty bare. I’ll keep digging.
Buck recognized Maddie’s penmanship and set the note aside. He had expected as much. His predecessor’s handling of the asylum affair had been less than thorough. Sheriff Rylan Walters had his deputies snap some photos, ask a few questions, and then basically wrote the whole thing off as though it was livestock merely thinning its own herd. Rumors had run wild but soon they, too, had died off from lack of interest.
Buck caught the scent of the cigar before he noticed Jim Bowling’s shadow pass over his desk. “Morning, Jim.”
State Police Lieutenant Jim Bowling stood in the open doorway and smiled down at the Sheriff.
“My, my, what do we have here? The long arm of the law finally comes to save us simple folk?” Bowling snickered around the cigar clamped between his yellowed teeth. The Cheshire cat should have envied the man’s smile.
Buck looked up from his cluttered desk and locked eyes with the trooper. “You might call it that, Jim.” The Sheriff’s eyes glittered hungrily. He was in no mood for Bowling’s bullshit. Buck had already heard enough from Deputy Griggs about how uncooperative the little prick had been; best to put him in his place right away. “Black, Jim, no sugar. How ‘bout you go fetch me a cup?”
Bowling blew out a long slow plume of gray smoke and stepped into Buck’s office, the trooper’s beady little eyes full of instantaneous rage. “Excuse me?”
Subtlety wasn’t one of Buck’s strongest qualities; especially after recent events.
With his son bandaged and broken, a young family butchered, and a killer still roaming the streets, Sheriff Tanner didn’t have time to mince words. Plus, having one’s skull cracked open with a golf club tends to set a person in a foul mood.
“How long have your worn that badge, son? Five years? Certainly not much longer.” Buck kept his voice calm and his eyes on the young trooper. Buck paused, letting his words settle over his “guest.” “You ever work a homicide, son? Not just string the yellow tape, but actually roll up your sleeves and work one?”
Buck could see the anger leaving the man as he continued. “Now, I ain’t saying you don’t know shit, but dammit Jim, if you think running to channel forty-one with every last detail is gonna actually help in any way, then it’s obvious; you don’t know shit.”
Bowling’s face flushed with embarrassment. Buck held up a hand before the man could comment.
“I get it, you’re pissed. You wanted this. Hell, maybe you even deserved it.” Buck paused, and for the first time his calm demeanor and cool tone began to fray at the edges. “But this isn’t about what you want…or what I think. This is about justice; for the Reed’s, for my boy, and for Lord knows who else this sick son of a bitch has hurt.”
Bowling stared across the desk at the Sheriff. The gray smoke hung heavy between them, but the tension had finally broken. “What can I do?”
“I need your help, Lieutenant. You have access to records, files…information that I could never lay my hands on. “
Bowling nodded, not fully understanding the request but suspecting he might be bending a few rules in obliging the man. “Done,” he nodded, noting the seriousness in Tanner’s eye. His hatred for Griggs aside, the trooper had a modicum of respect for the aging Sheriff.
Buck paused, reconsidering the man standing before him. He too had been young and brash once. Perhaps not the asshole that Jim Bowling had shown himself to be, but nonetheless there was no denying the kid had fire. That fire may just be the catalyst to nailing the murderer.
The file was marked ‘Lake View Asylum – 1958’. Inside were half a dozen sheets of handwritten notes and a few black and white photographs. Buck held it out to the state trooper.
Bowling opened the file and glanced briefly at its contents. The trooper’s brow furrowed with puzzlement.
Buck removed a photo from the binder on his desk and held it up for Bowling. “Notice anything?”
The Trooper’s eyes moved from the file’s contents to the photo Buck held. Bowling had seen the Reed’s bathroom and quickly recognized the blood-scrawled word: Repent. Bowling’s eyes widened as he made the connection. His reaction was immediate.
“No fucking way!”
Buck smiled in spite of himself, “Yeah that was my thoughts exactly. I’m not sure how or why but it’s your job to find a ‘fucking way’.”
Bowling nodded, his mind spinning at the possibilities.
Buck rose to his feet, standing a full six inches taller than the young Trooper, and extended his hand. “I’ll talk to Griggs; let him know to give you a wide berth and all.”
Lieutenant Jim Bowling accepted the offer and responded with a firm shake of the Sheriff’s hand. Depositing the thin file on the Sheriff’s desk, he left Buck’s office with something to finally dig his teeth into. Walking to his car a few minutes later he had more than a passing suspicion that the elder lawman was grasping at straws. Yet the photos were eerily similar.
Maybe I should just take a look around
. He thought, pointing his cruiser east down Main Street. Placing his trademark mirrored sunglasses atop his nose; Lieutenant Jim Bowling drove towards the rising sun over the Lake Hospital On that final drive, he never suspected how right Buck Tanner’s hunch would turn out to be. Or that, much like the countless souls before him who had ventured through the asylum’s doors, he would never see the light of day again.
Lionel hadn’t been to school since the incident. Instead, his father had thought it would be best if the boy took some time off, probably through the Thanksgiving break. By then, Collins hoped there would be some progress in the case and life would start looking more…normal.
While the elder Collins tended to his flock, a task that considering recent events had been taking more and more of his time, young Lionel was left pretty much to fend for himself. Fortunately for Lionel however, even when by himself he was never truly alone.
The soft and soothing tone to Ellis’s voice had taken on a more pained and powerful tenor. Initially, this frightened the boy, but Lionel was quickly adapting to this stranger’s voice inside his head. Oddly, this unseen companion provided him a sense of comfort. It was also during this period of change with Ellis, that Lionel noticed his own loss of time. There really was no other way to describe it. Entire portions of a day or night would be wiped from his memory. Once he had awakened to find himself standing over his father’s bed as the man slept, with no recollection of how or why he was there. It was only upon returning to his own bed that he noticed the kitchen knife in his hand. Another time he found himself alone walking along the wooded shore of Asylum Lake, a good six miles from his home, again with no recollection of how he had gotten there.
Today, however, was proving to be the most perplexing experience yet. Lionel could recall having breakfast with his father. If, by breakfast, a silent glass of orange juice and dry toast qualified. His father had left shortly thereafter, mumbling something about visiting a church member; he would be back by dinner.
That was the last thing Lionel could recall; until now. Teeth chattering, Lionel slowly came to the realization that he was sitting on his front porch swing dressed in only a bathrobe. His hair and skin were still damp from what he assumed was a shower. Taking in a deep and cleansing breath of the cool air, Lionel recognized the fresh scent of soap.
The strangest part of this awakening, however, was the feeling of utter and complete fatigue that welled from deep inside his muscles and joints. That, and the splintered pair of mirrored sunglasses he held tightly in his knuckle-scraped hand. Specks of blood marked both the lenses and the white bracelet that encircled his thin wrist. A circular burn roughly the size of a quarter also throbbed painfully on his forearm.
Exhaling a bitter plume of white vapor into the late afternoon chill, Lionel rose from the swing and retreated to the warmth and solitude of his bedroom. His father would be home soon and the voice was urging him to rest; for strength would be needed before the night was through.
Buck had spent the better part of the day in the solitude of his office reviewing the case notes and lab reports from the Reed homicides. Much like Griggs, the absence of certain evidence aroused more suspicion than what evidence they actually held. All things pointed to Lionel Collins.
The boy’s prints and tracks were on everything. From the knives and screwdrivers that had been used to puncture and slice the victims, to the golf club that had taken a divot of the Sheriff’s scalp. No other prints were found; nor did it appear that any had been wiped away.
Most concerning was the boy’s silence. All things considered, it was time for Lionel to provide some answers, and Buck was confident that he would know just how to pose the questions.
“Time to get to work, Maddie,” Buck stated matter-of-factly on his way out the door. “When Frank gets back have him meet me at the Collins’s house, would ya?”
“Sure thing, Sheriff,” she responded reaching for the radio. “Snow is picking up, be safe out there.”
Sheriff Buck Tanner’s lips tightened into a thin smile. “And while you’re at it, get Jim Bowling on the line. Have him join us, too.”
Maddie watched the Sheriff turn and walk through the swinging door into the frigid November evening.
How he kept that damn hat on in the wind was a mystery
. She mused.
Always one to trust her women’s intuition, she couldn’t help but worry as a shudder of chills ran down her neck and shoulders. Snuggling deeper into the cardigan sweater she kept at her desk, she fidgeted nervously in her seat as she waited for State Police Lieutenant Jim Bowling to respond.
The last time Buck Tanner had rolled up to a darkened house things had turned very ugly in a hurry. Removing his .44 from its holster, he vowed things would be far different this time. Of course, the good Reverend and his son may just be out, but the tingling hair on the back of the Sheriff’s neck told him differently.
Maddie’s efforts to reach Lieutenant Bowling had proven unsuccessful, presenting the Sheriff with an altogether unsettling sense of déjà vu.
If that son of a bitch has done anything stupid I swear I’ll kill him.
Buck fumed as he crept slowly up the porch steps. Whether by force of wind or something much more sinister and likewise unseen, the door creaked open as the Sheriff placed his first booted foot onto the wood-planked porch.
An open door is an invitation.
Tanner mused, raising his gun to the ready position.
And the last thing I want is to be rude.
Reverend James Collins couldn’t decide which concerned him more; driving up in his AMC Gremlin to find his house completely dark with the front door partially open or the police cruiser parked in the driveway. Neither was tantamount to good news.
Not that he had expected good news. It seemed as if God’s plan for him included a near constant test of faith. Fortunately, James Collins had the patience of Job and a strong belief that in the end everything would work out exactly as it should. He pondered this as he left the relative warmth of his car and prepared for the biting chill of the wintry walk to the house.
Clutching his oversized bible in one ungloved hand and securing his unbuttoned coat against the wind with the other, he braced himself against the pummeling snow and walked gingerly through the ankle-deep drifts that blanketed his walkway and yard. Puzzled by the tracks that led from the police car and up the front steps to the open door, he followed them nonetheless. The creaking of the porch swing’s movement in the wintry breeze echoed across the stillness.
The solitary tracks led into the darkened house. Collins stopped at the door and eased it the rest of the way open. Glancing back in the direction of the Police Cruiser, Collins’s wrapped his frozen fingers around the worn leather of his bible and entered the shadowy confines of his disturbingly silent home.
Somewhere, in the hidden recesses of his subconscious, Lionel slept; oblivious to the flurry of activity that his unwitting body was now undertaking. The boy’s normally copper-colored eyes blazed like smoldering embers; their intensity surpassed only by the sinister smirk and hardened demeanor that now defined Lionel’s once delicate features. Transformation complete, Ellis Arkema’s penetrating red gaze burned through the shadows. Fueled by vengeance and years of pent up hatred, Ellis spurred Lionel’s unknowing body forward; silently stalking his prey.
Slowly, Buck’s vision adjusted to the dim interior of the unfamiliar surroundings. Even in the darkness his slow breath came out in visible white plumes; the house was bitterly cold.
The .44 felt like ice in his hand. Buck tightened his grip on the cold metal as he moved deeper into the shadows. Although he had never before been inside the Collins’s home, the Sheriff had walked through enough of the old Colonial-style dwellings to know the basics of where everything was located. He moved easily from the foyer into the living room, brushing against the indiscernible furnishings.
The house was quiet, too quiet. Buck trained his ear towards the kitchen and moved slowly in that general direction. The crunch of something beneath the Sheriff’s steel-toed boot echoed across the stillness. Fuck, he cringed, freezing in place.
An eternity seemed to pass as Buck waited for something…anything to come leaping out from the darkness. Finally, he relaxed, easing his finger from the frosty trigger on his sidearm. Buck let out a long and steady breath as he contemplated his next move. Sadly, the press of cold steel against the back of the law man’s head stirred him from his planning.
“My, my, my,” came a whisper from the darkness. The warm breath on Buck’s neck carried with it the scent of freshly turned earth. “Here for another golf lesson, Sheriff?”
The last time the good Reverend had come home to such a peaceful house had been the worst moment in his entire life; finding his wife hanging from the bedroom rafters. The memory still haunted him. It had been the first domino in a series of events that were still tumbling out of control; events that he still found himself struggling to find God’s plan in.
Power’s out, he surmised, flipping the switch on the wall as he closed the door to the winter chill. Stepping from his snow covered boots, Collins started for the kitchen, to the cabinet where he kept the flashlight.
An unfamiliar voice in the darkness, thick with hatred and dripping with malice stopped him dead in his tracks and chilled him to the core. The Reverend listened intently as the realization swept over him that God’s hand played no role in this foul game.
“One should watch where one steps,” the disembodied voice continued as the gun pressed harder into Buck’s head The Sheriff could feel the distinct outline of a double barrel just under the brim of his Stetson; enough firepower to spray his brains well into the next room, if not beyond.
“I believe those were your compatriot’s sunglasses you just stomped to pieces. No worries, however, his days of requiring eye protection are passed.”
Buck swallowed hard. In an instant his nerves of steel had crumbled. Neither his police training nor his years of experience had prepared him for the feeling of a shotgun to the back of his head. Pretty sure this one’s not in the manual, his mind raced at the predicament. The .44 in his hand provided scant comfort.
“
We’ve met before, you know? Twice, if we’re counting the golf lesson, should we count the golf lesson?” the voice snickered “Of course, I don’t expect you to remember. Our first encounter was years ago. As for the last time, you were… preoccupied. It’s too bad there won’t be a next time; this time I plan to make a lasting impression.”
The stranger was obviously enjoying himself. A fact that provided Buck a glimmer of hope. Keep him talking. “I meet a lot of people,” Buck replied dryly, “all part of the job. Don’t take it personally. As for the golf lesson, it only reinforced my hatred of the game.” Buck’s pieced together scalp itched beneath his hat at the memory.
The comment was met with silence. If not for the barrel of the shotgun pressed to his head, Buck would have thought for sure his attacker had reconsidered.
“
Looks heavy,” the voice replied, absent the previous traces of amusement, “the gun that is; drop it.” Buck winced as he dropped his sidearm to the floor. If not for the .22 strapped to his ankle he would have been defenseless. Not that he stood a snowball’s chance in hell of drawing it before the shotgun blast painted the walls red with his blood. Still, its presence kept hope alive.
“Turn around, slowly.” The voice carried a certain don’t fuck with me quality that Buck quickly obliged. Of course, reinforcing a demand with a shotgun tends to empower an individual. The Sheriff, mind ablaze with questions, was ill-prepared for the answers that awaited him as he turned to face his foe.
Standing before him, shotgun now trained at his chest, Sheriff Buck Tanner gazed down at young Lionel Collins. Even cloaked in darkness, Buck noted that the menacing voice wasn’t the only change in the lad. Lionel’s face was deathly pale with dark circles beneath each eye. His lips were drawn back into a snarling smile; revealing more teeth than Buck had thought humanly possible. Most startling, however, were the piercing red eyes that glowed from Lionel’s sunken eye-sockets.
“You let them take her, Sheriff. Much of this could have been avoided… the hurt… the loss.” For the briefest of moments the intensity of the voice wavered as it trailed off into silence. “The price for blood is blood, however, and I am here to collect.”
For some, faith is a blanket that provides comfort in times of great distress or grief. For others, belief in a higher power provides a place to deflect responsibility; everything difficult is part of a master plan. For Reverend James Collins, his faith had always been an anchor; a place of refuge during the storms of his life. Tonight, however, in the presence of what he could only describe as true evil, the Reverend’s faith became a weapon.
Buck started into the steel-eyed barrels of the shotgun and smiled. He had accepted long ago that any given day could be his last on earth; and had thought on at least a handful of occasions that his last day had finally come. But never had he considered that he would be taken down by a twelve-year-old boy.
Movement in the shadows behind the red-eyed figure caught the Sheriff’s attention. “Promise me,” Buck whispered in hopes of providing distraction, “it ends here…with me. Let my blood settle the debt.”
The fire in Lionel’s sunken red eyes blazed. “My good Sheriff, are you trying to bargain with me?” The hollow laughter that followed chilled Buck to the bone. “I’m afraid we are well beyond the point of negotiations.” More laughter followed. “Besides, I do believe I have developed a taste for it.”
The next few seconds were a blur of confusion. Unsure of what, if anything, the shadowy form behind Lionel could be, Sheriff Buck Tanner made the brash decision to reach for his .22. As the law man ducked for his weapon, a blast from the shotgun took the Stetson from atop Buck’s head. He could feel the displacement of air as the buckshot slammed into the wall behind him. Pain from a thousand bee stings peppered his shoulder as Buck rolled to his feet with his back-up weapon in hand. His mind commanded his body to fire a salvo of shots, but not a single round left the barrel. His entire hand and arm was numb and immobile. Fear ran through his body, but when his eyes finally registered what he was seeing, Lionel’s crumpled body lay unexpectedly sprawled across the floor.
Gripping what remained of his antique Bible, Reverend James Collins towered over the fallen boy.
The remnants of the family heirloom fell from his hands as he dropped to his knees beside his son. “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”
Buck’s revolver fell to the floor as he collapsed. His eyelids became heavy as the sting in his shoulder intensified. Drifting into unconsciousness, the Sheriff could hear the Reverend crying over his fallen son, as two smoldering red eyes waited for him in the darkness.
The power of a name is as ancient as the custom of naming itself. All throughout mythology, examples can be found of secret names, names that had the power to destroy, and names that had the power to bring great rewards.
Ken Ritz was hopeful that the great reward for his dubbing of Lionel Collins as The Cookie Monster would be a move to a larger market. Not that Lansing was small potatoes, but his sights had always been on something much bigger and definitely more lucrative.
The highly popular children’s television program Sesame Street had recently unveiled its latest Muppet;
The Cookie Monster. The smug reporter saw the opportunity and ran with it, nearly wetting himself with excitement when he saw his story picked up by the Associated Press and running in media outlets across the Midwest.
Ritz, it turned out, was privy to far more information than just the words written in blood above the bathtub inside the Reeds’ bathroom. His unidentified source, acknowledged for his intimate knowledge of the investigation, had also revealed that the assailant was believed to have helped himself to a plate of freshly baked cookies before undertaking the vicious attacks that had ended with a family of five brutally murdered and the town gripped by fear. Sadly, Lieutenant Bowling had been unavailable for further comment, but Ritz ran with the unreleased details, and the clever moniker, nonetheless.
Ritz, much like the countless other members of the media present outside Bedlam Fall’s small hospital, were camped out waiting for word from Sheriff Buck Tanner. Although the specifics had yet to be released, rumors were swirling that both the accused and the Sheriff had sustained what doctor’s were calling non-life threatening injuries during the apprehension.
As the vultures circled outside, Buck sat quietly on the edge of the table in exam room one. A young doctor worked anxiously to remove the remnants of buckshot from his bloodied shoulder and arm. Beside him, an even younger appearing nurse stood quietly with a syringe of morphine should the lawman finally decide to accept the offered painkillers. Buck Tanner needed a clear head, however, and declined.
Dressed for the second time in just over a week in an embarrassingly thin hospital gown, the Sheriff’s thoughts vacillated between shock and anger. Most upsetting, however, was the loss of his cherished Stetson.
Damn it all.
He fumed, running an awkward hand through his thinning gray hair.
Task complete, the doctor exited with his nurse in tow; encouraging his patient to get some rest. Alone at last, Buck Tanner was left to contemplate which was more frightening; the small number of answers he now possessed or the multitude of questions that plagued his beleaguered soul.
Just down the hall from where the bandaged Sheriff sat in quiet contemplation, Deputy Frank Griggs stood guard outside Lionel Collins’s room.
Again, the guilt ridden deputy had been too late to respond to the call. This time, however, with good reason. Because of his efforts, a young child had been pulled free from the twisted wreckage of a fatal head-on collision. Griggs’s quick thinking and brute strength had enabled him to literally pry the child from the back seat mere seconds before the vehicle burst into flames. Sadly, the child’s parents had been killed upon impact.
Griggs had resisted the urge to pummel the driver of the other vehicle, a drunken teenager whose truck had crossed the center line and struck the unsuspecting family returning from vacation. The teenager had walked away unharmed, more concerned with the angry reaction of his parents to their damaged vehicle than with the devastation he had just caused. The angry deputy took a small amount of satisfaction when the teen’s head “accidentally” slammed on the doorframe of the cruiser as he threw him into the back seat.
Just out of earshot stood a handful of State Police brass huddled together in hushed conversation. One of their own was unaccounted for, and they were fully unconvinced by the strange tale that was being spun by Sheriff Buck Tanner.
Surely the man was rattled
. Griggs could easily overhear their whispers.
Griggs sighed in frustration drawing angry looks from the troopers. Battle lines were obviously being drawn and the pissing match over jurisdiction would soon begin anew.
As of now, however, Sheriff Buck Tanner was still in charge and his only order for the young deputy had been quite simple, “Nobody in. Nobody out.” The smell of gasoline and charred metal clinging to him, Griggs folded his beefy arms across his barrel chest and with blazing eyes dared anyone to try to pass.
All things must change to something new, to something strange.
~ Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Alone with his thoughts, the echoing silence in Lionel’s mind was deafening; all but drowning out his father’s incessant bedside recital of the Twenty-third Psalm. If not for his aching jaw and temple, the boy would have thought for sure he was merely dreaming.
Lionel knew he was in the hospital, and apparently in some sort of trouble; beyond that limited awareness, the lad was lost. The same deputy who had interviewed him after the incident at the Reed’s was again lurking about; this time, however ,wearing a much more bitter expression on his already sour face. Lionel paid it little mind however and instead focused on what he did know, something in him had changed.
Resting amid the sterile bed linens, Lionel felt hollow; as if his soul had been carved out from its resting place within his core. The sound of the door opening didn’t rouse him from his torment.
“Sheriff,” Lionel heard his father mutter from his bedside. With the greeting, the patient turned his eyes toward his guest. Time seemed to freeze as they locked gazes. For the briefest of moments Lionel experienced an odd connection with the lawman; a passing sensation of the familiar that evaporated as the Sheriff broke his gaze.
“Reverend,” Buck nodded as he slowly made his way forward. Nearing the bed, the Sheriff recast his attention on Lionel.
The man looked different without his hat, Lionel thought, smaller and far less imposing even. Maybe it was the way he was gingerly holding his arm or the slow and awkward gait to his usually determined walk.
“I’ve got some questions, son,” Buck began. “But first, I need to explain a few things.” The Sheriff looked down at the small form in the bed and drew in a deep breath before continuing. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can, and will be used against you in a court of law…”
Three hours later, Buck left the hospital riding shotgun in Griggs’s police cruiser. The deputy had retrieved the Sheriff’s Stetson from the crime scene and had placed it strategically on the dash in front of the passenger seat. Without a word, Buck gently placed the shot-ridden hat atop his aching head.
Griggs drove without talking, knowing that the Sheriff would get around to it in his own time. It took all of fifteen minutes.
“Do you believe in God, Frank?”
Griggs hadn’t known what, if anything, to expect from the man, but this question took the deputy by complete surprise.
“Ummm...Yeah, I suppose I do.” Like most small towns similar to Bedlam Falls, church membership was deemed almost mandatory. Rumors ran rampant about those who didn’t at least grace the pews at one of the town’s two small churches; at least once in a blue came calling far too often. However, attending church and believing in God were two different things.
An uncomfortably long silence greeted Frank’s reply; minutes passed before Buck continued. “I never cared either way, just did what I thought was right.” Buck paused, collecting his muddled thoughts. “But I felt something tonight, Frank, something…evil. And it got me thinking; if there is a God then it stands to reason that there is something else…something wicked and full of hate.” Buck’s words trailed off into silence.
Griggs’s grip on the steering wheel tightened as he pondered his passenger’s words. “Sheriff, I can’t begin to imagine what it is you’re feeling, what with Johnny and all, but that Collins kid is just plain sick in the head; ain’t nothing evil about that.” It was the Deputy’s turn to pause. “You gonna head back to Grand Rapids now…check on Johnny?”
Griggs stared at the road ahead as he waited for the Sheriff’s reply. When none was offered the deputy stole a quick glance at his passenger. Sheriff Buck Tanner sat motionless, staring straight ahead into the wintry night. “Sheriff?”
Buck recast his focus to the Deputy. For the briefest of moments the Sheriff’s tired eyes blazed red beneath the shadowed brim of his Stetson. Barely audible above the noise of the cruiser’s tires crunching over the snow-capped road, Buck’s reply sent chills down the Deputy’s spine. “Yes, Grand Rapids,” the words dripped with vitriol from Buck’s smiling lips. “I’ll be taking care of Johnny in Grand Rapids.”
August 30, 2010
Bedlam Falls, Michigan
The next two weeks breezed by as Brady and April rediscovered their teenage crush. Brady’s anxiety over sharing the broken parts of himself slowly subsided and in this sharing he found a degree of healing.
Sadly, as his days became filled with April, Brady’s nights were plagued by strange dreams that left him shaken and beaded with cold sweat. Details of this reoccurring nightmare always remained at the periphery of his memory, although the icy blackness of the lake always seemed to be the setting. The lack of sleep, not to mention the anxiety of the nightmare itself, began to wear on him.
“Looks like somebody woke up under the bed this morning,” April teased as she approached down the path from the driveway. Abby was at her side, struggling under the weight of an enormous picnic basket. Today’s lunch by the lake had been her idea after all; the menu and everything. Gruff padded out to greet her.
Brady brushed his lips against April’s cheek, gently encircling her fingers with his own. “Careful lady,” he teased, giving her hand a squeeze. “You try sleeping with that great behemoth across your legs.” Holding hands, they led Abby and Gruff down the path to the deck overlooking the lake.
April remained silent, knowing full well that it wasn’t the dog causing Brady’s sleepless nights. Just two days ago he had fallen asleep on the couch while watching television. It was 2:00 in the afternoon and April was watching Abby and Gruff splash along the shore in the warm lake water. With the latest issue of People Magazine spread across her lap and a Corona with lime within easy reach, April had just closed her eyes to enjoy the sunshine when a scream erupted from inside; sending nearby gulls into flight over the lake with echoing cries of their own.
April scooped Abby into her arms and sprinted up the back stairs, through the French doors and into the kitchen; Gruff clawing at her heels.
She found Brady standing at the kitchen sink soaked in cold sweat and water from the running faucet. He was pale and stood motionless gripping the counter.
Setting Abby down, she approached him cautiously and placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “You okay?”
Brady’s body quaked beneath her touch. He raised his eyes to briefly meet her questioning gaze as a forced smile tugged at the corners of this mouth. “Yeah, yeah – I’m fine,” exhaling deeply, “just a dream.”
April didn’t ask for details and Brady didn’t offer. Yet now, two days removed from that frightening event, Brady looked at her with bloodshot eyes ringed with dark circles. “Let’s get some food in you,” she said, leaning her head against his shoulder. “And maybe after we can see about finally getting this place organized?”
Brady smirked, “Organized? That just sounds like work.”
“A little work will do you good, mister,” another squeeze to his hand before she let it go and ran ahead to catch up with Abby and her overfilled picnic basket. “Besides,” she said turning and smiling mischievously back at Brady, “after work there is always room for a little play.”
“And that, Mr. Tanner, is how you organize a sock drawer.”
Brady sat in stunned silence on the edge of his bed. The last three hours had been torture. From the kitchen pantry and linen closet, to this, the dreaded sock drawer. He now felt like Martha Stewart had given his home a complete makeover.
“You do realize that the sock drawer is not meant to stay organized.”
April glared in response.
“Don’t blame me, socks get lost, even mismatched; before you know it the sock drawer is chaos. It’s best to just let it be a mess and move on.”
Brady tried to refrain from smiling, but couldn’t resist. He rose to his feet pulling April into his arms and planting an easy kiss on her forehead. Their comfort level with one another was remarkably strong, especially given the hesitancy with which Brady had initially pursued his former crush.
April playfully drew away from his embrace. “Not play time yet, Mr. Tanner.”
Brady collapsed back onto his twin bed and groaned. “Really? What could we possibly have left to organize?”
April extended her hand, inviting Brady to stand. He accepted, following her from his room and down to the closed door at the end of the hall. With each step towards his parent’s bedroom his stomach tightened with worry.
They stood quietly, holding hands as Brady collected his thoughts…and his breath. “I don’t know what you think this is going to accomplish.” Brady muttered.
April turned to face Brady, gazing deeply into his hazel eyes. “Two things,” she said. “First, you have to face whatever it is you think is behind this door, Brady. And I promise you, it won’t be as bad as you think.”
Brady sighed in agreement as he reached for the doorknob. “Wait. You said this was going to accomplish two things. What’s the other?”
April answered with a kiss, deep and passionate, rocking Brady to his core. “I thought tonight would be a great night for a sleepover,” kissing him again on the lips. “But I am not sleeping in that sorry excuse you have for a bed, Mr. Tanner. This Amazon Woman needs room to stretch her legs.”
Brady’s erection was all the motivation he needed as he fumbled at the knob. April’s giggle evaporated as quickly as his excitement as Brady opened the door.
“Houston, I think we have a problem.”
As a young child, Brady had spent countless hours playing with his little green army men on the floor in his father’s study. On rare occasions, and for reasons that were never explained, the room had been deemed off limits to him. On one such occasion he had taken the liberty of sneaking into the room while his parents were occupied elsewhere. The visit had left him with nightmares.
The room’s walls had been covered with push-pins holding reports, handwritten notes, newspaper clippings, and what was obviously crime scene photos depicting a variety of different victims with battered, bloodied, and contorted bodies. Brady had run to his room feigning illness, where he remained for the next two days. The joy of waging make-believe war at his father’s feet had been wrestled from him with that one ill-timed visit.
The memory came back in a flash as Brady stepped through the open doorway. He expected to see the room as he had remembered it; a neatly made bed topped with pillows, photographs and artwork from his childhood spread across chest of drawers in the corner accompanied by the familiar scent of his mother’s perfume.
Instead, his parent’s bedroom looked like it had been dressed by the same designers who had created the sets for NYPD Blue. The bed was gone, and the remaining furniture had been filed against the far wall beneath the blind-drawn windows. If not for the light filtering in from the open door the room would have been dark as night. Even still, it was replete with shadows.
Brady fumbled for the light switch. A bare bulb hanging down from the center of the ceiling over a very small wooden desk sparked to life. Atop the desk rested his father’s old PC. Brady instantly recognized the dinosaur.
“I like what you’ve done with the place,” April snickered as she glanced passed Brady and into the room.
When the initial shock subsided, Brady entered and examined the room much more closely. Stacks of newspapers, some dating back decades, littered the floor. A large map covered the mirror that hung on the wall. Beside the map were blueprints of some sort pinned into the plaster. His father’s easily-recognizable handwriting covered numerous legal-sized pads of yellow lined paper.
“Safe to say you’re dad didn’t take up interior design in his retirement.”
Brady agreed with a chuckle. This made no sense. Although he had no idea what his father had been up to, especially after his mother’s death. Brady had always assumed the old man’s days consisted of puttering around in the garage, fishing for blue gill from the end of the dock, and watching his Tigers, Lions and Red Wings on TV. Maybe the old man had even mixed in an occasional beer or two down at The Hayloft with Frank Griggs.
If he didn’t know better, Brady thought this room looked a lot like his father never really retired. He had been in enough precincts to see the trappings of an active police investigation; not to mention the memory of his last time inside his father’s study at their home in Grand Rapids.
A cursory examination of the room, however, revealed little. Everything, from the newspapers to the notes and reports, appeared to be decades old; with some more than half a century.
Aside from the collection of papers, photographs, maps, and architectural renderings that occupied nearly every surface of the room, not to mention the relic of a computer on the desk, there sat two more personal items resting on a small shelf near the map.
Grandpa’s hat, he recognized, reaching forward to touch the old Stetson that he had seen in so many old family photos. Although Buck Tanner had died in the line of duty long before his grandson was even a glimmer in his daddy’s eye, the man whose name Brady carried had been discussed often, and with reverence, by those who had the fortune of making his acquaintance.
Brady’s hand paused mere inches from his grandfather’s hat; his attention momentarily diverted by a weather beaten hospital bracelet that lay beside the tattered Stetson. His hand reached forward to pluck the bracelet from the shelf when April spoke.
“You’re right,” sighing her surrender, “We’ve done more than enough organizing for one day.” Wrapping her arms around Brady’s waist and leaning her head onto his shoulder, she continued, “Not even I have the energy for this.”
Brady dropped his hand away from the shelf, turned and melted into April’s arms. Taking her smiling face into his hands he leaned forward and pressed his lips to hers.
“I agree. Opening the door was a good first step.” Brady led her from the room, turning once as he flipped the light off and closed the door. His gaze returned momentarily to the shelf as the room went dark. “Besides, I have a feeling you’ll need your energy tonight.”
Buck awoke to find himself standing near the lake. The snow had finally ceased and the clouds overhead were breaking, raising temperatures into a much more comfortable twenty-degree range. A thin film of ice was just starting to form on the lake’s surface, sealing its depths away for another winter.
Buck couldn’t recall how he had ended up outside; his last vague memory was of climbing into Griggs’s police cruiser. Instinctively, he reached for his hat and was pleased to find it resting on his aching head. He pulled it off to examine it under the moonlight, his fingers poking through its tattered brim.
Should have aimed about six inches lower.
Buck whirled around at the sound of the windswept whisper. The pathway leading from the house was deserted. Buck squinted his tired eyes into the darkness of the tree-line; nothing.
Down here, Sheriff.
Buck dropped his vision from the winter bare foliage to the shoreline at his feet. The moonlight overhead was reflecting off the thin layer of ice covering the lake. For the briefest of moments he saw something…a spark of light. Shaking his head, the confused Sheriff stared harder into the mirrored surface. Slowly his vision refocused. Staring back at him, from the haggard and unshaven face he knew so well, were two blistering red eyes.
And God said to Abraham, take your son, you’re only son…go and sacrifice him as an offering onto me…
Buck Tanner’s scream became laughter as his lips curled back into a sinister smile; a stranger’s smile unrecognizable as his own. His last thought before succumbing to the darkness writhing inside his tired body was of Dr. Wesley Clovis, a man he had never met, moonlit walks along the lake in the company of a young woman, and the rancid stench of aged metal.
The old Ford was half way to Grand Rapids when Buck realized he was driving. The clock on the dash read 3:15 a.m. and the radio was tuned to static. It took a moment for Sheriff Tanner to orient himself to his surroundings.
Unfamiliar eyes looked on as unknown hands gripped the wheel of his Ford truck. Buck was a tourist in his own body; a feeling that made his stomach lurch and head spin with foggy thoughts.
Welcome back, Sheriff
. The menacing voice echoed through the fog inside Buck’s throbbing head. Although caught by surprise, the shock of hearing the disembodied voice had a far less rattling impact on Buck this time. The bewildered lawman did his best, however, to avoid stealing glances at his own reflection in the rearview mirror.
I must admit, Sheriff, you had me more than a bit worried back at the lake. For a moment I thought that old heart of yours had burst; left me wondering if the task of killing is something best left for the young.
The humming of the strange voice between Buck’s temples suddenly ceased. In the deafening silence that lingered Buck sensed that for whatever reason he was at least temporarily alone with his thoughts and once again in control of his body. He slowly eased his foot off the accelerator to guide the truck off to the shoulder of the highway.
The absence of other vehicles on the road both relieved and frightened the lawman. But at 3 a.m. what could one expect. Besides, Buck had a suspicion that he wasn’t really alone. Although currently silent, he suspected that his passenger would return. In the meantime, Buck got his bearings.
Resting on the bench seat to his right lay a variety of items; each more menacing and disturbing than the last and Buck had no memory of collecting them. A hand axe from his tool shed, meat cleaver from the kitchen, his .44 Magnum, and lastly his Springfield deer hunting rifle. The powerful .30-06 had been overseas with Buck’s father in World War I and would one day be passed down to Johnny. At the thought of his son, the humming inside Buck’s head returned.
I also had the rifle in mind for your son; funny how great minds think alike, wouldn’t you say, Sheriff?
Buck’s insides turned to jelly as he watched his hand clumsily move to the gear shift and slide the truck back into drive. Once again, his trusty Ford was cruising uncontrollably down the highway. Buck’s mind jumped from one possibility to the next as he tried to make sense of the madness that was engulfing him.
He looks a lot like you, your son that is.
The voice was taunting Buck now.
Of course, I saw him only briefly and once covered in blood most people tend to look alike.
Buck tried with every ounce of his fiber to stifle the voice in his head with a scream. It passed through his lips as more ghostly laughter.
The price of a memory, Sheriff, is the memory of the sorrow they bring.
He was running through the woods; small branches and overgrown foliage biting into his exposed flesh. To his right he heard the sound of breathing. Stealing a glance he saw a young woman struggling to keep up. He extended an unfamiliar hand to offer help. Pale white and porcelain smooth, the hand that was not Buck’s burned under the filtered afternoon sun that fell through the trees overhead.
“Emily,” the voice called. “Take my hand.” Although absent of malice, Buck instantly recognized the voice as the unknown passenger inside his own mind. Now, it seemed, the Sheriff and the mad man had somehow switched roles.
Sightlessly, the woman groped for the offered hand. She’s blind, Buck realized, struggling unsuccessfully to help.
“Ellis,” she cried, “I can’t.” Her dirty cheeks ran wet with tears… and blood. “Run, Ellis. Run away.”
As the figure glanced back into the trees, Buck could feel the indecision and fear growing inside his host. “We’re close, my love, just a little further. The highway is just through that field.”
Buck looked more closely at Emily’s bulging belly, confirmation of a pregnancy. Six months or so, Buck reasoned. Ellis’s frantic efforts led the lawman to the certainty of parentage. Instantly, the Sheriff felt a sympathetic bond with Ellis and his struggles to save this woman and the unborn child she carried.
Effortlessly, Ellis lifted Emily into his arms and continued his trek towards the open field that lay beyond the tree covered bluff. The muscles across his back and legs burned with each stride.
Buck silently urged Ellis on, unaware of what he was fleeing from but sensing that it certainly couldn’t be good.
The sun was blinding as Ellis emerged from the tree-line into the open field. The red winter wheat was lush and nearing time for harvest. Ellis waded through the waist-high crop as the sun’s rays burned against his pale skin. Finally, after what seemed to be an endless sea of green, the pale man carrying the blind and bloodied woman emerged on the shoulder of Country Road 22 just outside the city limits.
Emily’s blood was mixing with his own, running down his arms and leaving a trail along the pavement. Ellis trudged towards town, roasting beneath the afternoon sun as he hummed soothingly in Emily’s ear
Buck watched as Ellis struggled under the weight of Emily’s unconscious form. Finally, over the horizon, an approaching vehicle came into view. Buck recognized the familiar rack of lights on the police cruiser. His excitement at the unexpected sight of help on its way turned instantly to fear as Sheriff Buck Tanner at last remembered his first encounter with Ellis Arkema.
“What in holy hell is that?”
Although relatively new to the force, Deputy Bradford “Buck” Tanner, fresh from a decade of service in the U.S. Navy, felt prepared for just about anything. The sight of the ghost like figure, bathed in blood, and carrying a young girl in his arms, however; wasn’t one of them.
He reached for the radio as he brought the cruiser to a skidding halt. “Dispatch – this is Tanner. I have…a situation. Country Road 22, three miles west of town. Get the Sheriff out here – pronto!”
Deputy Tanner eased the door open and stepped from the cruiser, hand placed on the gun at his side. With the black Stetson atop his head, the young lawman’s hazel eyes were shadowed against the hot afternoon sun; Tanner looked like Wyatt Earp patrolling Tombstone. The .38 felt like a play-toy compared to the .44 he owned, but Sheriff Walters insisted on carrying the biggest gun; although he was now too fat to even carry one, a fact that Tanner was sure meant he was compensating for some other shortcoming.
“Sir,” Tanner shouted as he stood at the front of the cruiser, a mere 20 yards in front of the approaching figure, “I need to see your hands. Please, put the woman down slowly and show me your hands.”
The man was tall and slender. The girl in his arms was limp as a rag doll. Buck didn’t know if the blood that covered them both was solely hers, but knew from the sinister tilt of her head that she was most assuredly in a very bad way.
“Please,” the blood-covered figure mumbled, “help me.”
Deputy Tanner noted the man’s pale appearance and close-cropped snow white hair. Most striking, however, were the red eyes staring out from behind the exhausted and blood soaked face. Drawing his gun, Tanner repeated, “Sir, I need you to stop and show me your hands.”
The man’s shuffling feet slowly came to a halt. “Please, she’s hurt.”
His knees buckled under the weight, spilling the girl onto the road. Deputy Tanner sprang forward using a precisely placed booted foot on the man’s back to pin the stranger to the ground. “Don’t move.” Handcuffs were quickly clicked about his wrists. Tanner noted the plastic bracelet encircling the man’s bloody arm; easily identifying him as a patient from the asylum. Although not common, patients sometimes wandered away from the hospital grounds.
“You have to help her,” the stranger pleaded. “Please.”
Deputy Tanner turned his attention to the girl, noting her delicate features beneath a tangle of blonde hair. She, too, was pale, but not like the man. The man was a ghost. A matching hospital bracelet encircled her thin wrist.
His quick inspection revealed that most of the blood was coming from under the woman’s dress and running down her legs. The deputy dared not examine further. Her breathing was shallow and pulse almost non-existent.
“I promise you, help is on the way,” Tanner reassured the man, releasing the pressure on his back slightly. “What happened?”
The man was sobbing now, his thin frame convulsing on the road with each gasping breath. “They took her. I tried to save her…save the baby. Help me.”
Deputy Bradford “Buck” Tanner looked up from the road to see the approaching police cruiser. Behind the car hurried an old white Studebaker. Relief swept through the young deputy as he recognized the hospital’s ambulance. Neither sounded their siren as they rolled up to the scene.
“Rest easy, help is here.” Tanner consoled the weeping man beneath his boot as he stole a glance in the direction of the young woman; the rise and fall of her chest was becoming fainter.
Sheriff Rylan Walters heaved his corpulent form from the police cruiser, slick with sweat and gasping for air. His pants were cinched about his round waist by a length of rope. With short arms that could no longer reach down to his side, the man hadn’t carried a gun for years.
Behind the rotund Sheriff, two men exited the ambulance, neither in much of a hurry. The driver was impishly small with a pencil thin mustache and greasy dark hair that he wore slicked back into a ponytail. Pausing briefly to light a cigarette, the man exhaled a plume of gray smoke; with not a care in the world.
His passenger was equally disinterested in the events. A mountain of a man, the great lummox stood well above six feet tall with wide shoulders and the brow of a Neanderthal protruding from his flat face. The odd pair seemed perfect together.
“Dammit, Bradford,” Walters panted as he approached the Deputy, “Tell me there’s a good reason you have me out in this heat?”
Buck sighed and pushed his Stetson back, revealing eyes that carried little trace of sympathy. “Sir, they’re injured. I’m not sure by who or what, but the woman especially is in pretty bad shape. The,” Tanner paused, choosing his words carefully “…gentleman is more exhausted than injured.”
Walters paused to catch his breath. Behind him the men from the ambulance approached, each sporting white jackets, trousers, and unaffected stares.
“Ellis, Ellis, Ellis,” the smaller man stated sarcastically as he took a painfully long pull on his cigarette, “you know better than to run. Bill here,” jerking a thumb in the direction of his oversized partner, “has that bum knee.” The smoke poured from his nostrils as he spoke.
At the sound of the man’s voice Ellis began to squirm under Tanner’s softly placed boot.
The greasy man laughed a sniveling bark that brought forth the rest of the smoke from his lungs. “He’s trying to run again, Bill, use of force authorized.” The laughter amplified as the white clad men drew nearer to Ellis and the Deputy.
Buck removed his gently placed boot from Ellis’s back. Squaring his shoulders, the young lawman’s eyes raged beneath his Stetson, stopping the approaching men dead in their tracks. Never one to stomach a bully, Buck shifted his gaze from the diminutive man with the bothersome laugh to the mountain named Bill that was lumbering at his heels. Buck’s hands clenched into fists as he stood his ground.
“Stand down, Tanner,” Walters bellowed. “Gettin’ yerself all riled up and for what?” The rotund Sheriff glanced in the direction of the escapees. “A blind half-wit and…and…what the hell is that anyways, Douglas?”
Douglas ran a nervous hand through his greasy hair as he giggled beneath his pencil-thin mustache, “Oh that’s just Ellis, Sheriff, funny lookin’ fella, but harmless as they come.”
Douglas took the Sheriff’s conversation as an invitation to proceed and walked carefully by the Deputy, raising his arms in mock surrender and grinning as he passed.
Ellis squealed as Douglas’ shadow fell over his aching body. Mustering all of his strength, the injured man turned to face his would-be-captor as the hospital orderly squatted down beside him.
Douglas Wyatt, Lake View Asylum’s most reviled orderly and unbeknownst to many also its most disturbed inhabitant smiled as he plucked the smoking cigarette from between his lips and blew the smoke into Ellis’s pale face. The smile became a sneer as Wyatt pressed his face close to Ellis’s ear.
“Dr. Clovis is very disappointed in you, Ellis, very disappointed.” The orderly’s breath was stale and fell across Ellis’s already burning flesh like a match-head catching flame. “He said, perhaps it’s time that I take a more ‘vigorous interest’ in you.” Wyatt drew closer, sliding his sweaty palm along Ellis’s pale and bloodstained arm. “And I am so looking forward to it.” Ellis cried in pain as Wyatt crushed his lit cigarette out onto the back of the injured man’s hand.
Shaking with rage, Tanner stepped forward, prepared to snap the little man’s neck with his bare hands. Bill, however, moved much more quickly than the Deputy had thought possible and clamped his own iron hand onto Buck’s shoulder. The Sheriff’s plea for peace brought some sanity to the situation.
“Tanner, I believe these gentlemen have everything under control.”
Buck paused, indecision eating away at his insides. He didn’t know who these men were, but his instincts told him that they were far from medical professionals.
“With all due respect, sir,” Tanner replied, shrugging free from Bill’s grasp and turning to address the Sheriff, “The woman needs medical attention…now.”
“Son, did you not see these two gentlemen roll up in that ambulance?” Red-faced and dripping with sweat, Sheriff Walters looked as if he was on the verge of collapse from the heat. His sparsely populated head of hair was already turning pink under the blistering sun. “Now stand aside and let them tend to their business.”
Bill mumbled something unintelligible as he brushed by the deputy. The man stank of sweat and booze. He effortlessly scooped the bloodied woman from the pavement and hefted her over his shoulder. A soft moan drifted from her open lips; giving Buck some degree of hope.
“Yes, yes,” Wyatt’s’ nasally voice chimed in as he hefted Ellis to his feet. The pale-skinned man was mad with worry. His red eyes blazed as he looked to the Buck for help. “We’ll definitely give them the… attention they deserve.”
It took every ounce of self restraint Buck could muster, but he stood aside to let Wyatt lead Ellis to the back of the ambulance. The Deputy’s sharp eye caught the round cigarette burn on the back of the man’s hand; his rage boiled over as he ran to the open door of the ambulance.
Emily lay on the floor of the darkened interior of the vehicle. The windows along each side had been blacked out with paint and there was absolutely no medical equipment in sight. The cabin smelled of urine…and death. Quietly, in the darkness, Ellis cradled Emily’s head in his lap. The last thing Deputy Buck Tanner saw before Bill slammed the door shut were two red eyes, seething with rage, staring at him through the darkness.
Through the windshield, Buck noted the glow of oncoming headlights. He briefly recast his attention to the rearview mirror and was relieved to find his own hazel eyes staring back.
The memory of his brush with Ellis, fresh and vivid in his mind, was both alarming and at the same time very revealing. Buck could only imagine what fate the two lovers met upon their return to the hospital.
I see we have company.
The voice startled the already shaken Sheriff. Buck resisted the urge to steal another glance into the rearview mirror.
Ever get the urge to just split the oncoming headlights, Sheriff?
Buck shuddered as he watched his hand reach forward to switch the headlights off. The hand returned to the steering wheel and slowly began to guide the Ford across the center line and into the lane of oncoming traffic.
It’s maddening to feel so powerless…so vulnerable.
Buck could feel the anger rising within his uninvited guest.
You really should have done something.
The lights from the oncoming car were drawing dangerously closer. Buck pushed with every ounce of energy against the unseen force inside his mind, trying to break free.
The price for blood is blood, Sheriff…
more laughter.
The last statement, clearly a threat, gave Buck all of the motivation necessary to break through. His hand jerked forward and fell clumsily across the wheel, steering the truck from its forthcoming impact and off the road where it skidded from the pavement at more than sixty-miles-per-hour. The tires caught briefly in the loose gravel along the shoulder causing the truck to flip end to end several time before landing upside down in a nearby field.
The entire episode took mere seconds, yet time seemed to stand still as Buck was thrown around the cabin of his Ford. Ellis’s collection of deadly items slammed again the glass and metal of the truck, the hand-axe biting deeply into Buck’s shoulder as the truck finally came to a rest.
The cabin was crushed, pinning Buck’s legs beneath the dashboard. He could feel the wet warmth of blood spilling down his face as the menacing laughter resumed inside his head.
As Tanner squirmed to free himself from the wreckage, the voice returned, an aching hum inside his foggy head.
I must say, Sheriff, you are full of surprises. This overreaction on your part is merely delaying the inevitable. I don’t want you dead, Sheriff, not yet, anyway. You’ve some business to take care of for me.
Buck closed his eyes to the voice and reached through the darkened wreck of the truck’s cabin for something…anything to help him win his freedom. His outstretched fingers brushed against the familiar wooden grip of his .44 Magnum, sending a jolt of electricity through his aching arm. Instantly, the lawman knew that salvation lay in his hand.
Fighting against the laughter that was boiling up inside him, Sheriff Buck Tanner brought the weapon forth from where it lay and placed it beneath his bleeding chin. With a single squeeze of the trigger the Magnum burst forth a deafening flash of light; its echo bringing a welcoming silence to the darkness that had swallowed him.
